


The Public Perception of the Barding Profession

by sospes



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Feelings, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Rape, Sexual Assault
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:54:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22455304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sospes/pseuds/sospes
Summary: “I’m a bard, Geralt,” Jaskier says, like that explains everything. “To a lot of people, there’s a very fine line between a musician and a whore. A line that’s so fine that, in fact, it doesn’t really exist."Geralt learns that Jaskier's life can be just as painful as his, sometimes.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 272
Kudos: 5091
Collections: Geralt is Sorry, Wasn't Quite Expecting This (But I Loved It), wiedźmin





	The Public Perception of the Barding Profession

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed the warnings/tags on this one!
> 
> Edit (29/4/20): I feel a bit weird coming back and adding a note to this fic three months after writing it, but here we are! I've twice now had people commenting to tell me that the actions and emotions depicted in this fic are absolutely _not_ how people deal with sexual assault - and while I would never demand that any of my readers censor themselves in the comment box, I would ask that everyone takes into account the varied nature of reactions to trauma that exist across the spectrum of humanity. There have been other commenters who have said that this fic maps pretty exactly onto their own experiences of trauma and recovery, which is something I am truly touched that people have shared with me, and I also have some experience of my own on the topic. 
> 
> I toyed this morning with the idea of taking this fic down, to be honest, for the sake of my own mental health, but people have said that they have been helped by this fic and I wouldn't want to take that away from anyone. So I'm going down another route: I have a note on _[Advantage](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23528962)_ , another fic that deals with this subject, that basically just asks anyone reading to be kind. I'd just like to ask for the same consideration here.
> 
> (Sorry if this sounds ridiculously maudlin and pretentious!)

“You’re the Witcher he’s singing about.” 

Geralt looks up from his drink. There’s a tall, thin man standing in front of him, clothes almost as well-worn as Geralt’s are, with that specifically haunted look in his eyes that he’s come to associate with people who need his help. “I am,” he answers, briefly glancing over to where Jaskier is in the middle of another ballad about Geralt killing… something, Geralt stopped listening a little while ago. 

“I’d like to hire you,” the man says, then haltingly: “Can I sit?” 

Geralt gestures, and takes a drink. 

The man sits. “There’s a monster in the woods,” he says, insistent and nervous. “It’s been eating my flocks, and last night it nearly took my daughter.” 

Geralt grunts. “What kinds of animals?” 

“Sheep, mainly,” the man answers. “Some goats, but the beast doesn’t seem to want them. Just the sheep.” He shudders. “Sometimes, I find their entrails left behind. They’re covered with this… slime, thick and stringy.” 

Geralt nods. “And you can pay?” 

The man fumbles in his pocket, brings out a snap purse that he pushes across the table. “That’s all I have,” he says. “It’s two hundred ducets, I know it isn’t much.”

Geralt pockets the purse. “I’ll do it,” he says. “Where’s your farm?” 

“Just outside the village,” the man answers. “Past the ponds, down the track to the left.” 

Geralt nods, and gets to his feet. “I’ll deal with it,” he says. “Meet me back here in the morning, and I’ll have confirmation for you.” 

The man leaves, nodding and thanking and generally kowtowing way too much for Geralt’s liking. Geralt finishes his drink, then looks to Jaskier: he’ll let him know where he’s going, then they’ll have the usual argument about whether or not it’s useful for a bard to traipse along on a Witcher’s hunt, and Geralt will win the argument but sometimes Jaskier will tag along anyway. Except there’s a small flaw in that plan, because Geralt looks across the tavern to where Jaskier was playing and he’s… not there. 

Geralt frowns. 

It’s probably nothing. Jaskier will have met some willing paramour, and in the blink of an eye he’ll have spirited her—or him, Geralt allows—up to his room. It’s happened before, and more than once when they’ve been sharing a room he’s walked in on Jaskier between some barmaid’s legs or with some stablehand’s lips around his cock. Geralt usually just rolls his eyes and walks out again, leaving Jaskier to it, then sleeps on the floor. The long and short of it is: Jaskier’s probably fine.

Jaskier’s lute is sitting in a corner, carelessly propped against the wall with no sign of its owner. 

Disquiet settles in Geralt’s gut. 

He goes to the lute, slowly touches the strings, then looks up, scans the tavern. Most of the patrons are deep in their own lives, uninterested in anything but their drink and their food – but Geralt catches movement at the corner of his eye, a door swinging open, and he catches a whiff of a familiar smell. Jaskier. 

Jaskier and _fear_. 

Geralt shoves through the tavern, his shoulders tightening and his hand going to his sword. The door leads out into the stableyard—Roach is munching her way through a nose bag on the other side—and Geralt follows the smell round the corner to the alley that runs along the back of the tavern, dark and dank and stinking of piss. At first he thinks he’s wrong, he thinks he must have made a mistake. He can see Jaskier, see him pressed face-forward against the wall, trousers and smallclothes around his knees, see the man pinning him there, fucking relentlessly into him, and just for a second Geralt thinks he’s got this all wrong, that the stink he thought was fear is just arousal and adrenaline, heat and sex. 

But then he sees the knife at Jaskier’s throat, the hand clenched over his mouth, and he hears the things that the man is whispering in his ear. “You think you can just stand there like that, peacocking around in front of me, and not _expect_ this to happen?” A grunt, a thrust. Jaskier makes a strangled noise of pain. “You fucking whore, does your precious Witcher treat you like this? Is that why he keeps you around? I can see why. Gods, you are so _tight_.” 

Geralt sees red. 

He rips the man away from Jaskier, hurls him to the ground and drives his sword through his heart without even thinking. The man dies with his cock still hard, gurgling in the dirt, and Geralt turns away from him, forgotten. “Jaskier,” he says, harsh and sharp. 

Jaskier’s holding himself up against the wall, legs shaking, still half-stripped. “Geralt,” he says. “Nice of you to stop by.” 

“Are you alright?” Geralt asks, somewhat stupidly. 

Jaskier glances back at him, casts him a tired smile. “I’m fine,” he says, then bends over, pulls up his clothes, starts lacing up his trousers again. His hands are remarkably still, fingers nimble. “Thanks for getting rid of him,” he says. “Not an ideal end to the evening – I was having a good night, to be honest. Really feeling my performance but, you know, apparently he was, too.” He finishes dressing himself then turns around, smoothing down the rumpled front of his green doublet. There’s a thin red line drawn across his throat and a bruising bite mark just below the line of his collar. “There’s always one,” he sighs. 

Geralt stares at him. “Jaskier,” he says, but then doesn’t really know where to go from there. 

“Geralt?” Jaskier asks. 

Geralt’s mouth is oddly dry. “He was… hurting you,” he says slowly. 

“Raping me,” Jaskier corrects. “Yes, how observant you are, Geralt. Was it the cock in my arse or the knife at my throat that gave it away? Or perhaps a subtle combination of the two?” 

Geralt takes a step towards him. “Are you okay?” he asks, voice rumbling low in his throat. 

“I’m fine,” Jaskier says, unflustered, unfussed. “Honestly, Geralt. It’s not like this is the first time this has happened to me.” 

Geralt stiffens. “This has happened before?” he asks, a curl of rage twisting through his stomach. “When?” 

Jaskier looks down at the floor, sniffs, then winces. “Can we maybe continue this conversation inside, Geralt?” he says. “This isn’t exactly my idea of a relaxing atmosphere.” 

“Sure,” Geralt says slowly, and follows Jaskier back into the tavern, more than a little bemused. He’s rescued people from rape and abuse before and the usual response is a little more… emotional? More crying, more emotional pain. Less… jokes? 

Jaskier goes to retrieve his lute, clicking his tongue against his teeth in annoyance at the careless way it’s been left. He tucks it away in its case, picks up a tankard of ale from the bar, and goes to the table that Geralt vacated only a few minutes ago. He sits down, props his feet up on a vacant chair, and looks up at Geralt, who’s still staring at him in confusion. “Sit _down_ ,” Jaskier says. “No need to stand there like that. People will stare.”

Geralt sits. “Explain,” he grinds out, teeth gritted. 

“I’m a bard, Geralt,” Jaskier says, like that explains everything. Geralt just keeps staring at him, and Jaskier sighs. “To a lot of people, there’s a very fine line between a musician and a whore. A line that’s so fine that, in fact, it doesn’t really exist. Whenever I perform, people will grab and touch and, you know, have expectations. Sometimes that just means I get my pick of whoever’s young and willing. Sometimes it means that I end up in an alley with a knife at my back and some arrogant lordling’s cock in my mouth.” 

Geralt doesn’t know what to say. 

“It’s fine, Geralt,” Jaskier says, his voice a little softer. “I mean, it isn’t ideal. But it’s the price I have to pay.” 

“No,” Geralt says. 

“Well, it’s true that while I’ve been with you, it doesn’t tend to happen so much,” Jaskier admits. “Having a big scary Witcher watching over me tends to help. But when I’m alone…” He trails off, shrugs. “I’m not exactly a fighter like you, Geralt, and I have a pretty face. It tends to be safer to just let them get on with it.” 

Something is _boiling_ in Geralt’s gut. “Never again,” he says. 

Jaskier looks momentarily surprised, but then he smothers the expression under his usual layer of lighthearted banter. “I appreciate the thought, Geralt,” he says. “And I appreciate what you did for me today. But you can’t always be looking out for me, you know that. I mean, I saw you talking to that man – I assume you have a contract? And you can’t take me along on all your monster fights, you’ve made that very clear. You can’t be here to protect me all the time.” 

“I can,” Geralt snaps. “I will.” 

Jaskier’s expression twists. “Well, thanks,” he says, a little flat. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to go wash that man’s stink off me. And I believe you’ve got a monster to kill.” 

Jaskier heads upstairs without looking back, and Geralt sits there for a moment longer, his jaw working soundlessly. He gets up, eventually, goes to the farm, goes to the woods, and kills the monster – and when he gets back, he finds Jaskier curled up in bed, fast asleep and snoring. 

Geralt stands at the end of the bed, green blood splattered across his face, and for once in his life has no idea what to do. 

Geralt is hunting a rogue doppler at a a fancy ball. He stalks around the outside of the ballroom, footsteps soft and silent, and looks for whatever’s out of place, whatever’s not quite right. He’s not having much luck so far, but he’s patient. He can wait. 

Jaskier is happily installed on a low dais at the other end of the hall, strumming and singing without a care in the world. Geralt’s keeping half an eye on him, too, and on the faces of the high society fanciers who are watching him a little too closely. It’s been months since he found Jaskier pinned and abused in that alley, and he’s not been able to get the image out of his head. Jaskier calls him the White Wolf half-jokingly, but there’s something wolflike in the emotion coiling in Geralt’s gut, possessive and protective. 

He’s not about to let Jaskier get hurt again. 

The ball proceeds as fancy balls always do, and it only takes Geralt a few hours to root out the doppler who’s been posing as a Marquis for the past few weeks, taking advantage of his new-found authority to mutilate and torture the peasants at his liking. Geralt takes his head in a dark corner, watching with a faint sense of satisfaction as his body bubbles and boils into nothingness, then he goes back to the ball to watch as Jaskier holds the room in the palm of his hand. 

Except when Geralt settles down at the back of the ball room, it doesn’t take him long to notice that there’s a tightness in Jaskier’s shoulders that wasn’t there before. 

The songs finish and the lords bustle drunkenly off to their own petty lives, and Jaskier comes to find Geralt. His lute is slung over his shoulder and there’s a tired smile on his face. “Get him?” he asks. 

Geralt nods. “You okay?” 

Jaskier sits down at the table and drinks deeply from an abandoned cup of wine. “Yeah,” he says, then pauses, glances up at Geralt like he’s considering something. “It’s just—” He cuts himself off, shakes his head. “It’s nothing.” 

“What?” 

Jaskier’s jaw tightens. “There’s a man here,” he says. “One of the dukes who was prancing around earlier. He was wearing a ruff the size of your head and this horribly gaudy ribboned doublet, just hideous.”

“I saw him,” Geralt says. “What about him?” 

“Met him a few years before I met you,” Jaskier says. “While I was still training at Oxenfurt. He was there on some patronage business, I think, and he found me performing with some friends, just a practice thing, really, nothing special.” He pauses, sips his stolen wine. “He invited me back to his rooms,” he says, level and steady, “then he beat me senseless with my own lute, fucked me bloody, and dumped me on the steps of a local healer.” 

Geralt’s whole world contracts down to a single narrow point. 

“I’m telling you this,” Jaskier says carefully, so carefully, “because he recognised me tonight. Spoke to me between sets. Said… some things.” 

Geralt leans forward. “Did he touch you?” 

“No,” Jaskier says. “But he _strongly_ implied that he would be waiting for me outside the manor with a couple of his men, ready to do it all over again.” 

Geralt heads the bravado in Jaskier’s voice, the studied calm, but he also sees the way that his hand shakes when he goes to pick up his cup. “Do you want me to kill him?” he asks, low and grumbling in his throat. “Because I will.” 

Jaskier’s lips press tight. “I don’t know,” he says. “I just want to know that he hasn’t done this to anyone else.” 

“Jaskier.” 

“Okay, I sort of want you to kill him,” Jaskier says. “I sort of want you to kill him a lot. But I also just want to get this done with and leave this place, okay?” He pauses, holding Geralt’s gaze. “So could you maybe be my bodyguard for a few hours?”

Geralt doesn’t trust himself to open his mouth and not say something immensely angry and unhelpful, so he just nods. 

“Great!” Jaskier says brightly. “Well then, let’s get out of here. There’s a pint of ale and a pie with my name on it.” 

They’re ushered out of the manor by politely-smiling servants, purses of gold pressed into both their hands for the various works they’ve done, and they head down the path that leads back to town side by side. Jaskier’s rambling away as usual, an added note of nerves undercutting his relaxed attitude, and Geralt prowls at his side, senses heightened, every flickering shadow bearing the brunt of his gaze. It’s a cloudless night with a full moon bright overhead, casting its cold light down on the well worn path beneath their feet, which is great for Jaskier but less great for Geralt. It means his usual nighttime advantage is lessened. 

“Julian,” a soft voice says in the night, and the duke with the ribboned doublet emerges out of the shadows. 

Jaskier presses back, closer to Geralt. Geralt steadies him, resting his hand flat in the small of his back. “Your Grace,” Jaskier says, sketching a small bow. Geralt can feel him tremble. 

The duke looks over at Geralt, gaze flicking up and down with all the lazy entitlement that Geralt has come to expect of the upper classes. “Witcher,” he says. “I’m assuming from how my dear Julian clings to your side that he is yours, now?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, his eyes gleaming. “How much to borrow him for the night?” 

Anger stabs into Geralt’s heart. “Touch him, and you will regret it,” he says, feeling Jaskier press even closer. He can hear the hummingbird patter of Jaskier’s heart, smell the stink of his fear, and all of a sudden he’s back in that alley, Jaskier helpless and spread out, a knife at his throat. 

The duke gestures, and four armed, armoured men step out of the shadows with him. “I’ve followed your reputation, Julian,” he says. “Or is it Jaskier, now? I know that you’ve found yourself a pet Witcher, so I thought I had best bring some pets of my own.” Geralt’s hand flexes, missing his swords. He’s only got a pair of silver daggers with him, more than enough for a doppler but more of a challenge for four soldiers – especially with Jaskier to protect as well. “Last chance, Witcher. Hand him over to me and you’ll get him back in the morning, maybe a little worse for wear, but still whole.” 

Geralt grips the front of Jaskier’s doublet, pushes him behind him, and draws his dagger. “Get fucked,” he growls, and the duke’s men attack. 

They’re actually more competent than the usual hired hands that lordlings throw at him, although Geralt still dispatches the first two in a handful of seconds. The third gives him a little more trouble, and he nearly lets the fourth slip through to Jaskier – but then he elbows the fourth in the groin, takes his sword out of his limp hand, and slashes the third full in the face. The fourth lunges at him, is met by his own sword, and slides to join his colleagues in a pool of blood on the ground. 

“ _Geralt!_ ”

Geralt spins on his heel, stolen sword in his hand, and finds Jaskier with the duke’s hand around his throat. His gaze is panicked, frantic, and that makes sense because there’s a blade in the duke’s hand and it’s a hairsbreadth from his gut. The duke, in his ribboned doublet and gaudy ruff, has an unshaking hand and a grim expression. “Walk away, Witcher,” he says. “Or he gets my knife in his stomach and you watch him die.” 

Geralt doesn’t even flinch. His second dagger flies from his hand and lands between the duke’s eyes, sinking through flesh and bone and brain like butter. His grip loosens on Jaskier who immediately writhes away, choking for breath, and stumbles until Geralt catches him. The duke slides to the ground, to his knees, and his blood is spattered across Jaskier’s face. “Thanks,” Jaskier says faintly. “Again.” 

There’s a vulnerability in his voice that Geralt doesn’t think he’s ever heard before. He’s still leaning heavily on Geralt, staring at the body of the duke—whose name, Geralt is realising, he doesn’t actually know—and he’s trembling, just a little. “Come on, Jaskier,” Geralt says. “Let’s go.”

Jaskier nods silently, and follows him back to the inn they’re staying at. He doesn’t say a word in the streets, at the door, on the stairs, in their room, and the silence would usually be a blessing but now it’s just unsettling. Geralt has a bath sent up while Jaskier sits on the edge of the bed, clutching his lute in his hands, and when the bath is steaming and ready, Geralt strips Jaskier as carefully as he can and makes him get into the water. 

Jaskier lets out a shuddering breath, closes his eyes, and says, “So I guess I was maybe a bit blasé about how all this affects me.” 

Geralt passes him a washcloth, and waits. 

Jaskier washes himself in that same silence, his shoulders shaking in the candlelight, his fingers slipping with the soap, dropping it into the water. Geralt sits there on the bed and watches him, giving him space but ready to catch him if he falls, and he watches as he slowly, slowly puts himself back together. 

When he’s clean, Jaskier looks up at Geralt. His face is shadowed by the dim light, the moonlight that streams through the window catching on his cheekbones, his lips, and it suddenly strikes Geralt that, despite all his bravado and pluck and brashness, there’s an inescapable delicacy in Jaskier’s face. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t say anything, just watches Jaskier watching him, watches the whisper of those thoughts in his eyes, and when Jaskier stands in the tub, dripping wet and gloriously naked, when he steps out of the water and steps slowly towards Geralt like a hunter approaching a wild beast, when he reaches out and presses his wet hand to Geralt’s cheek, Geralt just sits there and watches him, feeling the heat start low and hot in his belly. 

“Thank you,” Jaskier says. 

“You don’t have to thank me,” Geralt answers.

“I know,” Jaskier answers, settles himself astride Geralt’s lap, and kisses him with a ferocity that he didn’t expect. 

Geralt knows better than to try to take control of this. He settles his hands on Jaskier’s thighs, holding him close but never crushing, never forcing – but Jaskier himself seems to have no such qualms, and he pulls at Geralt’s hair as he kisses him, grinds against his rapidly hardening cock and laughs into Geralt’s mouth at his resulting rumbled groan. He reaches down, unlaces Geralt’s trousers and takes his cock in hand, sets a rhythm that’s fast and thorough and so fucking good that Geralt can’t stop himself burying his face in Jaskier’s neck and breathing him in, the scent of him, the bathwater and soap and sweat. He comes almost embarrassingly quickly, his fingers digging deep into Jaskier’s thighs, and then Jaskier takes his hand, guides it to his own erection, and Geralt obliges. 

The look on Jaskier’s face as he comes is possibly the most beautiful thing Geralt’s ever seen. 

They share a bed that night, Geralt’s arm thrown across Jaskier’s waist. Jaskier’s asleep pretty much the moment his head hits the pillow but Geralt stays awake a little longer, thinking about the man he killed, the man who broke Jaskier’s lute and his spirit before he was even Jaskier – and there’s that surge in his heart again, that protective twist. 

Geralt buries his nose in Jaskier’s hair, breathes him in, and sleeps. 

When Geralt leaves the tavern to go and hunt down the striga that’s been terrifying the locals, Jaskier is perched happily on an uneven stool, lute in his hands, serenading the local barflies with his latest tale of derring do and adventure. When Geralt gets back to the tavern, covered in mud and blood, not all of it the striga’s, Jaskier is being manhandled out of the door between two burly men wearing the insignia of the local baroness, head slumped against his chest, drool oozing from his lips and splattering to the floor. 

Geralt dumps the striga’s head on the ground, makes use of the fact that he’s covered in gore, and steps close to one of the two men. “Where do you think you’re taking him?” he grinds out. 

He sees fear flash in the man’s eyes, but he stands his ground. “Baroness Livia has summoned the bard for tonight,” he says. 

Geralt eyes Jaskier, who as far as he can tell is glassy-eyed and hasn’t even noticed his presence. “Has the bard agreed to this?” 

“The bard’s agreement sort of wasn’t the point,” the second man mutters, and the first shoots him a sharp look. 

Geralt smells it now, thick and sickly on the air. Jaskier reeks of a concoction that Geralt has come across before, poppy and nightshade and valerian and other more noxious herbs, sliding through his body and his mind, making him limp and pliable and helpless. It’s a favourite of the kind of men who sit in taverns and wait for their happy, innocent prey to stumble in through the door. “You drugged him,” Geralt says, hackles prickling. 

“We’re just following our orders,” the first man says stiffly. “Get out of our way.” 

“Give him to me,” Geralt says flatly, “and I’ll let you go back to your baroness with your legs unbroken.” 

“You don’t like this as much as I do,” the second man mutters to his companion, his fingers twitching around Jaskier’s wrist. “Let’s leave it. She can’t complain if the bard’s damn Witcher stopped us.”

The first man stares at Geralt a moment longer, then capitulates. “Fine,” he says. “Take him.”

Geralt takes Jaskier from them, a dead weight, no strength in his limbs whatsoever. The first man paces away into the darkness of the night, but the second pauses for a second. “Make sure you leave quickly,” he says. “The Baroness will send more men after you and your friend. She doesn’t like not getting what she wants.” He glances at Jaskier. “Oh, and make sure he sleeps on his side. If he vomits, which can happen, he won’t be able to turn himself and he could choke.” 

Geralt nods jerkily, not quite a thanks, and hefts Jaskier into his arms. He carries him back through the tavern, ignoring the startled glances that follow them up the stairs, then navigates the narrow stairs with difficulty. He gets Jaskier into their room, deposits him on the bed, then heads back downstairs to collect Jaskier’s discarded lute and dump the striga’s head on the tavernkeeper’s lap. Coin in hand, he goes back upstairs. 

Jaskier’s eyes are significantly less glassy than they were, and he seems to be able to focus on Geralt with relatively little difficult. “G’r’lt,” he slurs, forehead furrowed. “Wh’t happ’n’d? Can’t m’ve.”

Geralt lays the lute down carefully in the corner, then goes to Jaskier, checks his pulse, the clarity of his eyes, the responsiveness of his limbs. He’s still limp as a fish. “You were drugged,” he says. 

“F’g’red _that_.”

“By the soldiers of Countess Livia,” Geralt says, and he doesn’t have to be intimately familiar with Jaskier’s facial expressions to recognise the startled look in his eyes. “Friend of yours?” 

Jaskier tries and fails to shrug, and then mumbles something that Geralt’s going to take as an affirmative. 

There’s not much point in trying to discuss the matter further, given that Jaskier’s vocabulary is basically limited to slurring and hiccuping. Geralt tells him to rest and props himself in a corner to meditate, recuperating as much as he can in case the Baroness’ men follow through on their threat – but still keeping an eye out for Jaskier. He seems fine, though, slipping into a half-drugged sleep quickly enough. Before long, he’s snoring. 

Geralt breathes, and listens. 

When the sun is still just a fine line on the horizon, boots this up the stairs and a fist pounds on the door. “Open up!” a sharp voice orders. “Orders of the Baroness!”

Geralt’s on his feet in an instant, and he doesn’t bother to suppress the flood of relief in his gut at the sight of Jaskier clambering out of bed, still a little shaky but actually able to stand. Jaskier catches his gaze and his lips twist. “You probably should have just let her have me,” he quips. “Might have been more straightforward. And less fighty.” 

“ _Open up!_ ”

“Fuck off,” Geralt barks in response. He looks back to Jaskier. “Who is this Baroness Livia?” he asks. “I’ve never heard of her.” 

“She’s not exactly your kind of monster,” Jaskier answers, light and tripping and exactly the kind of voice he uses, Geralt has come to realise, when he’s trying not to let his emotions overrule his self-control. “She likes… sex. Which I can sympathise with, personally, but she tends to like her partners to be… incapacitated?” 

“Drugged,” Geralt supplies. 

“Ideally not as drugged as I was last night, but yes, drugged.” Jaskier’s skin is pale, and he shrugs. “She likes them to struggle, at least a bit. Makes it more… stimulating for her.” 

“This isn’t the first she’s had you drugged,” Geralt states. 

“This isn’t the first time she’s had me drugged,” Jaskier agrees. “Only last time I didn’t have my own personal White Wolf to come along and save me. So.” He props his hands on his hips and points at the open window. “Shall we?” 

Geralt eyes the window frame. “Not sure I’ll fit through there.”

“I’ll give you a shove,” Jaskier offers and unceremoniously tosses his pack out to land in the stableyard below. 

When they’re safely ensconced on Roach’s back and galloping down the town’s main thoroughfare, Geralt feels Jaskier slip his arms around his waist and press his palms flat to his stomach. Geralt focuses on that, not on the trail of people throughout the damn continent who have taken Jaskier’s easygoing, cheerful nature as an excuse to take things from him that should never be taken. 

They make camp in the middle of nowhere that night, their fire burning bright and hot in the centre of a small thicket of trees well off the main road. Geralt catches a rabbit, Jaskier spits and cooks it, and they eat in silence for a moment. Geralt studies Jaskier across the fire, noticing the dark circles under his eyes and the wan pallor to his skin. “How are you feeling?” he asks. 

“Better than I did,” Jaskier says around a mouthful of rabbit. He swallows. “Still a bit dizzy and I’m not sure I can entirely feel my toes again yet, but much better than this time yesterday.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, and Jaskier looks up at the heaviness in his voice. “Your reputation. How much of it is true?” 

Jaskier’s eyes flash, just for a second, and he looks back at the half-eaten leg in his hands. “I’m assuming you don’t mean my professional reputation?” 

Geralt waits. 

Jaskier sighs. “My reputation as a lover and a philanderer is… more accurate than not,” he says. “I like sex. And women. And men. And I like making other people feel good.”

“But?” 

“But I’ve heard more than one person who’s had me in their bed… unwillingly bragging about how they conquered the famous Jaskier,” Jaskier answers, and Geralt _does not miss_ how his voice wavers. “It’s not like I’ve been slapped around in every town, Geralt, so get that thunderous look off your face. But, well, I’ve told you this before.” He shrugs. “It comes with the territory. Bards, whores. That whole jam.” 

For a second, Geralt remembers Jaskier in his lap, naked and dripping with bathwater, and then he remembers the few times it’s happened since, hot and needy, bordering on desperate. Bards and whores. Is that how Jaskier thinks he views him? 

“And no,” Jaskier interrupts his spiralling thoughts with unerring accuracy. “I know that’s not how you see me. Or how you see…” He gestures between them uselessly, then drops his hand without finishing that thought. “But you, my dear Witcher, are very much an outlier. In a number of ways.” 

Geralt hums deep in his throat at that. 

They sit across the fire, and finish their meal in comfortable, unspoken silence. 

“I did tell you,” Jaskier gasps, straining under Geralt’s weight, “that I’ve had more than enough crazy mages for one lifetime.” 

Geralt grunts at him, breathing harshly through the pain spiderwebbing out from the wound in his shoulder. His Witcher heartbeat is slowing the poison down, which is a bonus, but it’s not stopping it entirely and he can already feel the edges of his vision starting to grey. He needs an antidote, and he needs one fast. 

Jaskier is dragging them down a winding corridor in the mage’s labyrinth of a castle, limping from his own injury, a thankfully unpoisoned gash along the back of his calf. He chatters as he goes, nervous, scared, and Geralt should probably caution him about, you know, stealth, but right now he’s starting to wonder if this is going to be the last time he ever gets to hear that chatter so he’s not about to shut him up. 

“Just a little further,” Jaskier says, even though Geralt knows full well Jaskier has a little idea where they are as Geralt does. “We’ll get you to a healer and get you fixed up and you can go back to saving my life every five minutes instead of the other way around.”

“I don’t really think that’s likely,” a voice full of ice and glass says from ahead of them. “Do you, bard?”

Jaskier brings them to a stumbling halt, and Geralt just about has the strength left to look up. The mage is blocking the corridor ahead of them, his feet drifting a few inches above the stone floor, the same brightness burning in his eyes that Geralt saw in Yennefer’s as she wrestled with that fucking djinn. “Ah,” Jaskier says. “Hello again. Don’t suppose you could point us to the way out?” The mage’s feet come to rest on the ground and he steps towards them silently, his lips twisted in a cruel smile. “I’ll take that as a no, then,” Jaskier says shakily, his arm flexing tighter under Geralt’s armpits. 

“You know what I want, bard,” the mage says, trailing a fingertip along Jaskier’s jaw. “Leave the Witcher. Come sing _my_ praises.” 

“I’m actually okay with my current career path, so if it’s alright with you, I’ll pass,” Jaskier answers, and his voice might be firm and confident but Geralt can hear the racing of his heart. 

“No use glorifying the name of a dead Witcher,” the mage says, turning his attention to Geralt. There’s nothing Geralt would like to do more right now than snap his neck, but the poison has him in its grip, bitter and clenching. Which, of course, was exactly what the mage wanted. “There is an antidote, you know,” the mage says, almost off handed. 

Jaskier stiffens. “For the poison?” 

The mage nods. “Give yourself to me,” he says, sinuous as silk, “and I will save his life.” He cocks his head to one side, attention back on Jaskier, and, shit, Geralt knows that look. He’s seen it in an alleyway behind a tavern and on the face of a ribboned duke and half a dozen times since then, and when the mage reaches out and slides his fingers down Jaskier’s throat, he manages to summon the strength to growl. The mage laughs. “It won’t be that bad,” he says, ignoring Geralt. “I have good food and fine clothing and all the pleasures that a man like yourself could need. All I need from you in return is your voice and whatever else that lovely mouth can do. And, for that, I will save your Witcher’s life, wipe you from his memory, and send him far away from here.” 

“No,” Geralt manages. 

But Jaskier hasn’t said a word. 

The mage raises an eyebrow. “What do you say?” he asks. “I warn you, Jaskier. Your Witcher doesn’t have long. The poison is potent.” 

“ _Jaskier_ ,” Geralt says, trying to warn, trying to deny, but his legs choose that moment to give out and he slumps harder against Jaskier, sending him stumbling. 

“Okay,” Jaskier says quietly. “Save him. And I’ll give you what you want.” 

The mage nods, smiling that wicked smile. He snaps his fingers and the corridor around them shudders, shifts, changes into a – _bedchamber_. Large bed, rich drapes, candles burning in the sconces. “First, though,” the mage says, speaking to Jaskier but looking at Geralt, holding his gaze, victorious, mocking, “I require a demonstration of your… loyalty.” 

Geralt’s stomach drops, but he’s practically paralysed, his limbs limp, his vision blurring. He’s dying, he knows that, but when Jaskier helps him down to the thick rug on the floor, when he takes a halting step towards the mage, all he can think about is how he has to stop this, he has to help him. 

“On your knees,” the mage commands, and Geralt feels the thud in the floorboards as Jaskier obeys. Geralt groans his anger and frustration but there’s nothing he can do, blackness is eating at his vision and the pain is spreading closer and closer towards his heart. This wasn’t exactly how he saw himself dying – not the mage and the poison, that’s fairly standard, but _Jaskier_. He’s dying without saving his friend. 

Geralt turns his head, through the pain, through the hurt, because if he’s going to fail, he’s not going to be a coward and look away. 

Jaskier, on his knees in front of that fucking mage. The mage’s hand in his hair, wrenching his head back. The defeat in the line of Jaskier’s shoulders. 

The mage makes a noise, but it’s not a noise of pleasure. 

“I’ll have that antidote now,” Jaskier says, a hard edge in his voice. “If you want to keep your balls, that is.” 

The mage splutters in outrage, but clearly whatever Jaskier’s done, it’s enough to keep him in check. “You—”

“I’m waiting,” Jaskier says, almost sounding _bored_.

“Here,” the mage bites out, then slowly reaches into the sleeve of his shirt and draws out a small vial. 

“Brilliant,” Jaskier says brightly. “Take a sip.” 

The mage’s eyes flash, but he does as he’s told and doesn’t explode. 

“Now,” Jaskier says, “we’re just going to go over to my friend, nice and slow. I’m not going to let go, and if you try to run, I will cut off your cock so fast you won’t even notice it’s gone, okay?” – and the mage nods, and they turn, and that’s when Geralt sees that Jaskier has his hand tight around the mage’s cock and the tip of the dagger he keeps in his boot tickling his balls. 

_Huh_ , is all Geralt can manage to think.

“Give him the antidote, that’s a good mage,” Jaskier says, and with a grimace the mage tips the vial between Geralt’s lips. “How long will it take to work?” 

“Not long,” the mage answers, and he’s right because Geralt can feel it working already, feel the poison retreating, subsiding, feel movement and strength seeping back into his limbs. 

“Geralt?” Jaskier asks. 

Geralt grunts, then manages to push himself up on one elbow. “Yeah,” he says, voice rough. “Yeah, I’m okay.” 

“Thank the gods,” Jaskier says heavily. 

“And now what’s your plan?” the mage asks, anger seeping back into his voice. Geralt stiffens but he’s still weak, still not at full strength or speed. He’s not going to be able to help. “Are you going to stay here holding my cock until your friend gets away? Because the moment you take that dagger away, you have to know that I’m going to kill you both.” 

“Yeah,” Jaskier says. “Yeah, I sort of figured that.” And he stabs upwards, the razor-sharp blade slicing deep into the mage’s balls. 

The noise the mage makes is obscene, and he collapses in on himself, clutching himself, and thuds to the ground at Geralt’s feet. 

“Right,” Jaskier says, leaping away and hauling Geralt up. “Time to go!” 

They run and stumble their way out of the mage’s castle, since now that he’s more preoccupied with his skewered testicles he’s apparently less preoccupied with keeping his labyrinth of illusion intact. By the time they’re out in green countryside again, Geralt has regained most of his strength and, conversely, Jaskier is flagging, the wound in his calf catching up with him. Geralt takes his turn to bear most of their weight, and when they find Roach contentedly cropping grass without a care in the world, he boosts Jaskier up onto her back and takes her reins, leading them back to town. 

“Thanks,” Jaskier says, a little breathless, pain twisting his expression, then glances back over his shoulder. “What about the mage?” 

“What about him?”

“You were hired to get rid of him,” Jaskier points out. 

Geralt shakes his head. “I was hired to get rid of whoever was spoiling the town’s water supply. It’s not him.” 

“No, he’s just a creepy old wizard with a predilection for bards,” Jaskier allows. 

“Who is going to be out of action for… quite a while,” Geralt agreed. “Jaskier, you stabbed him in his balls.”

Jaskier shrugs. “Seemed like the best way to get us out of there in one piece,” he says. “I wasn’t about to let you die, was I? And I was _definitely_ not going to stay there to be his personal songbird and sex toy.” He grimaces. “If I’m going to be held captive like that, it’d better be in a much nicer castle than that one.” 

Geralt snorts, shakes his head, and walks the road back to town. 

They eat at the inn while Geralt figures out his next move regarding his contract. He speaks to a few of the locals, hears rumours of some kind of nest further upstream, and figures he’ll check it out tomorrow – and then he catches Jaskier’s eye and cocks his head towards their room. 

Jaskier looks momentarily surprised, but follows him anyway. 

When they’re in bed together, Geralt shirtless and pressing Jaskier into the mattress, Jaskier pauses, lips red and cheeks flushed. “Yennefer?” he asks, quiet enough that even Geralt barely hears him. 

Geralt kisses him, but he understands the question. They haven’t done this since the djinn, since he met Yennefer – and a part of it is that Yennefer is easier, in a strange way, less complicated, more lust, less… whatever else it is that he feels. Jaskier is complicated. Jaskier is fragile and strong at the same time, so easy to hurt and so hard to break. Yennefer is like him, but Jaskier is so unlike him it hurts. Yennefer is danger and flaming urgency. Jaskier is steady and solid and to be protected at all costs. 

Even from Geralt. Even from Geralt’s life. 

“Yennefer,” Geralt says, “isn’t here.” He kisses Jaskier again, harder, deeper, and tries to convey all the things he doesn’t know how to say in that kiss. 

Jaskier pulls away, laughs a little breathlessly. “Is that why?” he asks, hands running through Geralt’s hair. “Because you have an itch and the witch isn’t here to scratch it?”

Geralt stops. “No,” he says. “It’s because you gave yourself up for me. You were willing to let him hurt you for me.” Another kiss, longer, lingering. “I never want you to be hurt because of me.” 

Jaskier’s eyes are bright in the candlelight. 

“ _If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!_ ”

On the rare occasion that he risks a tavern with Ciri, when the weather is foul and the night is long, Geralt sits in the darkness furthest from the fire and listens to Jaskier’s songs. They’re not sung by Jaskier, of course, they’re being picked up and echoed by every lesser singer across the continent, but Geralt hears Jaskier’s voice in them, nonetheless. “I’m weak, my love, and I am wanting,” the red-haired bard croons to the barmaid, waggling his eyebrows, and Geralt turns away. 

Ciri is eating a bowl of thin stew with alacrity, spooning it down fast enough that it spills down her chin. She uses the corner of her new brown cloak to mop it up, then looks up at Geralt, frowning. “You don’t like this song,” she says. “You pull a face whenever you hear it.”

Geralt is fairly sure he doesn’t pull faces, but he’ll let it slide. “It was written by a friend of mine,” he says, even as his tongue slips sour around the word ‘friend’. 

“Shouldn’t that make you happy?” Ciri asks. 

“We didn’t part on good terms,” Geralt answers. 

Ciri studies him. “What happened?” 

Most people wouldn’t ask this kind of question to a Witcher who’s pretty well known for not wanting to answer questions. Ciri, however, is not most people. “I was cruel to him,” Geralt admits. “I said things that I should not have said.” 

“What’s his name?” 

Geralt hasn’t said his name since he last saw him. “Jaskier,” he says, and feels his slow-beating heart clench in his chest. 

Ciri frowns at him. “I know him,” she says. “He used to sing at my grandmother’s court sometimes.” 

“He was there at your parents’ betrothal feast,” Geralt says. “He’s the reason I was there, too. I was… protecting him.” He thinks about the lordling that insisted on seeing Jaskier’s arse, and then he thinks about another ball, another ribboned lordling, another flash of fear in Jaskier’s eyes. 

Ciri’s expression is serious. “So he’s the reason I’m with you now?” 

“In a way.”

Ciri stares at him a moment longer. “You should apologise to him,” she says, and goes back to her stew. 

Geralt doesn’t answer. 

They’re on the road a few weeks later, Ciri bundled tight against the wintry weather, Roach plodding along the frozen ground with her head hung. Geralt is cold but ignores it, his attention on the woods around them, on the path ahead, on the snow and the ice and the wind. The war and the weather are making this part of the continent even more dangerous than it is normally: they passed a pair of bodies half-buried in the snow earlier, and Geralt has smelled the distinct tang of human blood more than once. They’ve managed to avoid the robbers and bandits themselves, though, which probably has something to do with his white hair and golden eyes. They know him. They all know him. 

Geralt thinks of Jaskier, and tries to ignore the twist in his chest. 

It’s approaching evening when Geralt smells it. Blood, sharp and acid on the frozen air, coming from the trees up ahead – and then something else, thicker and musky, arousal and sex. Blood and sex. In Geralt’s experience, that’s rarely a good combination, and he brings Roach to a halt, dismounts as quietly as he can. 

“Geralt?” Ciri asks, as quiet as he is. 

Geralt hands her the reins. “Stay here,” he says. “If anyone comes for you who isn’t me, take Roach and run.” 

Ciri nods, and doesn’t ask questions. 

Geralt pads forward through the snow, silent as a cat. There’s noises coming from up ahead, now, and they only confirm what he expected: the slap of flesh on flesh, grunts of pleasure, hisses of pain. There are low voices, too, several of them, and as Geralt draws his sword, one rises above the others: “You know what it’s like to be weak and wanting now, don’t you, you fucking whore? Look how _hard_ you are.” 

And that’s when Geralt smells it: lavender and chamomile and the wax he uses to polish his lute. 

_Jaskier._

Anger flashes hot at the back of Geralt’s throat. 

He can see them now, through the trees. Three of them, burly, bulky men wrapped in winter furs, and two of them are holding Jaskier down while the third fucks into him from behind. Jaskier’s wrists are bound behind his back and there’s a gag wrenched between his lips, his left eye puffy and swollen – and, Geralt abruptly realises, there’s actually four men in the snowy clearing, only one of them is lying dead with a familiar dagger driven deep into his eye. 

The third man—the one fucking into Jaskier’s body, Geralt notes with a calmness that’s bordering on inhuman—grunts, slams in one last time, and shudders. The air fills with the stink of his orgasm, and he pulls out after a moment, wipes a hand across his lips and laughs. “Kedd,” he says. “Your turn.”

Geralt doesn’t fucking think so. 

He’s on them before the third man has time to lace up his trousers. Geralt plunges his sword directly into that man’s throat, sending him reeling back into the snow, and then he turns on the other two, slashing out and catching one of them across the gut. The other leaps back, out of range, shoving his injured friend into Geralt’s way – but Geralt just slices through him, kicks the broken body to the ground and goes after the last one. He’s managed to fumble a knife out and he snarls, swipes at Geralt with it, spits, “Fucking _Witcher_.” 

Geralt kills him with a single thrust, and he collapses to join his friends in the bloody snow. 

Breath gusting in the cold air, Geralt turns. Jaskier’s on his knees in the snow, hands wrenched bound behind him, gag stretching his lips into a twisted grimace. There’s blood on his face that isn’t his own, and he’s staring at Geralt, expression closed, shuttered. He’s naked from the waist down, and Geralt can see the shiver of shock and cold beginning to set in already. 

Geralt goes to him, pulls the gag out of his mouth, cuts the ropes around his wrists. “Geralt,” Jaskier says, his voice hoarse. “Nice of you to stop by.” – and Geralt remembers, of course he does, remembers that Jaskier said those exact same words that first time in the alleyway behind the inn, and he can see it in the line of Jaskier’s lips that he remembers as well. 

Geralt grits his teeth. “How bad is it?” he asks. 

“Pretty bad,” Jaskier says flatly. “Two of them had a go before you showed up, and they weren’t exactly tender lovers. Pretty sure I’m bleeding. And I have no idea where my trousers are.” 

Geralt casts around for a second until he locates the bright red trousers that only Jaskier would wear, his boots tossed carelessly a few feet away. Jaskier takes them, glances down at himself, then says, “I’m going to need a hand.” 

Geralt helps him dress himself, and the silence stretches between them. 

When his boots are firmly back on his feet, Jaskier hobbles to the rapidly deepening shadows at the edge of the clearing and digs his lute case out of a pile of snow. There’s a small parcel of belongings with it, clothes, a small bag of coin, vials of the scents that Jaskier always claimed made the scent of long road marginally less awful. Most of it has been kicked and scattered across the ground. Geralt helps him gather it all together, trying not to notice how Jaskier’s movements are awkward, pained. 

“That’s everything,” Jaskier says, slinging his lute across his back. 

“What happened?” Geralt asks, all the excuses and delays vanished into dust. 

“They followed me from the last village,” Jaskier says, not quite so light, not quite so breezy. “Came for my coin, and for, you know.” Geralt feels that coin of anger in his stomach again, red and fiery. “Except for some stupid reason, I didn’t just roll over and let them take it,” Jaskier says, chin lifted, eyes so bright they’re almost blazing. “I fought them. Killed one of them, but it turns out that when you don’t have a big, scary Witcher to back you up, fighting just makes everything worse.” There’s bitterness in his voice, and as if in sympathy Geralt sees the first snowflakes start to drift through the air around them. “They were going to kill me, Geralt,” he says, voice tight and scared. “They said as much. Tied me up, held me down, and told me in no uncertain terms that, when they were done with me, they were going to cut my throat and hang my corpse from the trees.” He snorts, his eyes brighter, his smile manic. “And then they mocked me with the words of my own fucking song,” he says. “The song I wrote about—” He catches himself, steadies himself. 

“The song you wrote about me,” Geralt finishes. 

A muscle twitches in Jaskier’s jaw. “That obvious?” 

“To me,” Geralt says. 

Jaskier stares at him, and doesn’t speak. 

“It’s starting to snow,” Geralt says, eventually. “You can’t stay out here by yourself.” 

“You asking me to come with you?” Jaskier asks. 

“I’m telling you you’re coming with me,” Geralt answers. 

“Of course you are,” Jaskier says, and smiles, lopsided and absent. 

They go back along the path, Jaskier limping with every step. Geralt wants to do nothing more than help him, carry him if he has to, but he hasn’t seen Jaskier in over a year and he doesn’t know if that’s still something he gets to do. He doesn’t know if that’s something Jaskier _wants_ him to do. 

“Stop hovering,” Jaskier says, and bumps his shoulder against Geralt’s. “I can practically hear the thoughts whirring around in your brain.” He pauses for a second, puts his hand on Geralt’s shoulder to steady himself, then says, “I’m fucking furious, by the way.” Geralt doesn’t know what to say to that. “And saving my life _again_ doesn’t fix that,” Jaskier continues. “You were a little _shit_ to me. Yennefer dumped you, and you just dumped it all on me – and yeah, okay, it turned out to be pretty great for me creatively, got a hell of a song out of it, but it broke my _fucking_ heart.” 

His hand is a brand, burning a hole in Geralt’s armour. “I’m sorry,” he says, even though that’s not enough, it’s never enough. 

“No shit,” Jaskier sighs – but then Roach appears through the trees, trotting towards them with Ciri on her back, and his face brightens. “Roach!” he says. “And Princess Cirilla?” 

Ciri looks at Geralt, hard. “Did you apologise?” is the first thing she says. 

Jaskier barks a laugh. “He apologised,” he says, and makes a leg. “Hello again, Your Highness.” 

“Just Ciri,” Ciri says, her voice small in the gathering gloom. “Are you okay? Your face.” 

“I’ll be fine,” Jaskier says, running his hand down Roach’s nose, rubbing his fingers into her mane. “And it’s good to see you again, girl.” She snuffles against his shoulder, and Geralt sees the waver in his body, the shiver in his legs. 

“Let’s go,” Geralt says. “We’ll move on a little more, then set up camp for the night.” He looks up at the sky, snow settling heavy over the woods. “It’ll be cold.” 

“I’m sure we can warm each other up,” Jaskier says, not looking at him, and for a second Geralt remembers another winter’s night, years ago, when they lay naked together in front of a fire, sweat running down Geralt’s shoulders, Jaskier’s skin flushed from the heat, entwined, enmeshed, touching each other slow and steady and building to heights that Geralt didn’t think he could ever reach. 

From the look in Jaskier’s eyes, he’s remembering the same thing.

They camp a little further down the road, setting up a makeshift shelter between two low-hanging trees and settling into it together. Jaskier speaks to Ciri in low, warm tones, asking her questions, teasing her story out of her without it ever seeming obvious that that’s what he’s doing, and when they sleep, the three of them pressed close for warmth, Ciri lies between them and dozes off with her face pressed into Geralt’s chest. 

In the night, in the quiet of the snowfall, Geralt watches as Jaskier dreams. He’s peaceful at first, breathing long and slow and even, but that doesn’t last and before long his forehead is furrowed and his breaths are ragged and his heart hammers so loud against his ribs that Geralt is half-surprised Ciri sleeps through it. Jaskier wakes with a gasp, eyes flying open, pupils shot wide with fear, with pain, with shock, and it takes him a while to reorient himself, to figure out where he is, to calm down. “Geralt,” he husks into the night. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt answers, and reaches over Ciri, rests his hand against Jaskier’s cheek, brushes his fingers through his hair. 

Jaskier presses a kiss to Geralt’s palm. “I love you,” he says abruptly, scattered and sparse. “I’ve loved you from the beginning.” 

Geralt’s heart twists in his chest. “Stay with us,” he says. “Stay with me.” 

Jaskier snorts softly. “You were the one who sent me away,” he says. 

“Next time, ignore me.”

Jaskier’s eyes are solemn in the dark. “Don’t let there be a next time,” he says, and then pauses, smiles a sad smile. “You told me once that you never wanted me to get hurt because of you.” 

“I’m a fucking asshole.” 

“Geralt!” Jaskier hisses. “ _Language_. You’re apparently now raising the crown princess of Cintra, you’re going to have to watch what you say from now on.” 

Geralt hums, and settles in closer. “Will you stay?” he asks, quieter. 

“For as long as you’ll let me,” Jaskier answers. 

Geralt watches Jaskier fall asleep again, and watches over him as he shudders through his dreams. 

In Kaer Morhen, Geralt lies in a mound of blankets and furs with Jaskier’s forehead pressed into the curve of his neck. The sweat is still drying on their bare skin, Jaskier’s hair damp with it, and Geralt can feel Jaskier’s breath rustling against his neck, tickling and soft. He presses a kiss to the top of his head, feels him settle and sigh deeper into him. 

“Thank you,” Jaskier says into the soft quiet of their bed. 

Geralt stirs. “For what?” 

“For letting me stay,” Jaskier answers. 

Geralt hums. “Thank you,” he says in return. 

Jaskier lifts his head, peers at him. “For what?” 

“For staying,” Geralt answers. 

Jaskier smiles, bright and beautiful, and slides his thigh between Geralt’s. “I thought you’d want to thank me for something else,” he practically purrs. “My mouth, my hands. Other places. Or, you know, my voice, the voice that brought you your fame, o White Wolf.”

Geralt shifts closer, nuzzles into Jaskier’s neck and nips at the bruise he left there earlier. “Shut up, Jaskier,” he murmurs. 

Jaskier laughs. “ _That’s_ more like it.” 

Geralt kisses him and drags him deeper into the nest of furs. Jaskier goes willingly, happily, his fingers firestorms against Geralt’s skin, his lips sweet and sparking – and if there are times when they’re together like this that Geralt presses the wrong angle or bites a little too hard, times when Jaskier presses a hand to his chest and says, “Geralt, _wait_ ,” with panic rising in his voice, then Geralt will hold him steady and warm until he smiles again. 

Jaskier smiles against Geralt’s lips, and kisses him harder.


End file.
